Jealousy / William Walsh
Jealousy Who could more happy, who more blest could live, Than they whom kind, whom am'rous passions move? What crowns, what empires, greater joys could give, Than the soft chains, the slavery of love? Were not the bliss too often crost By that unhappy vile distrust, That gnawing doubt, and anxious fear, that dangerous malady, That terrible tormenting rage, that madness, jealousy. II. In vain Celinda boasts she has been true, In vain she swears she keeps untouch'd her charms; Dire Jealousy does all my pains renew, And represents her in my rival's arms: His sighs I hear, his looks I view, I see her damn'd advances too; I see her smile, I see her kiss, and, oh! methinks I see Her give up all those joys to him, she should reserve for me. III. Ungrateful fair one! canst thou hear my groans? Canst thou behold these tears that fill my eyes? And yet unmov'd by all my pains, my moans, Into another's arms resign my prize; If merit could not gain your love, My sufferings might your pity move; Might hinder you from adding thus, by jealous frenzies, more New pangs to one whom hopeless love had plagu'd too much before. IV. Think not, false nymph, my fury to out-storm; I scorn your anger, and despise your frown: Dress up your rage in its most hideous form, It will not move my heart when love is flown; No, though you from my kindness fly, My vengeance you shall satisfy: The muse that would have sung your praise shall now aloud proclaim To the malicious spiteful world your infamy and shame. V. Ye Gods! she weeps; behold that falling shower! See how her eyes are quite dissolv'd in tears! Can she in vain that precious torrent pour? Oh, no, it bears away my doubts and fears: 'Twas pity sure that made it flow: For the same pity stop it now! For ev'ry charming heavenly drop that from those eyes does part, Is paid with streams of blood that gush from my o'erflowing heart. VI. Yes, I will love, I will believe you true, And raise my passions up as high as e'er; Nay, I'll believe you false, yet love you too, Let the least sign of penitence appear. I'll frame excuses for your fault, Think you surpris'd, or meanly caught; Nay, in the fury, in the height of that abhor'd embrace, Believe you thought, believe, at least, you wish'd me in the place. VII. Oh, let me lie whole ages in those arms, And on that bosom lull asleep my cares; Forgive those foolish fears of fancy'd harms That stab my soul while they but move thy tears; And think, unless I lov'd thee still, I had not treated thee so ill; For these rude pangs of jealousy are much more certain signs Of love than all the tender words an am'rous fancy coins. VIII. Torment me with this horrid rage no more: Oh smile, and grant one reconciling kiss! Ye Gods, she's kind! I'm ecstasy all o'er! My soul's too narrow to contain the bliss. Thou pleasing torture of my breast, Sure thou wert fram'd to plague my rest, Since both the ill and good you do, alike my peace destroy; That kills me with excess of grief, this with excess of joy. Category:18th-century poems Category:English poems Category:Poems